


The Real One

by Kaira_Sakamoto



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, First fic on Ao3 yay!, Fluff, Gen, Modern Girl in Thedas, More tags to be added, Multi, Short Chapters in the Beginning, Slow Build, Switching POVs per Chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 03:58:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7669243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaira_Sakamoto/pseuds/Kaira_Sakamoto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he sees the Herald's absent murmurings under their breath, he ignores it. He ignores the motions of their hands, writing across a page that isn't in front of them. He ignores their invisible painting, or the way their personality fades or snaps back into place with either too much attentiveness or too little. It must be an effect from falling from a Rift: something lingering and perhaps twisted in their brain. But none of them can dismiss when the Herald often collapses into sleep in front of them for no reason, or when they trail off in the middle of a conversation. When he adds it all up together, it's too much of a coincidence -- right down the circumstances.</p>
<p>"Oh no," Varric says, when it hits him. "Not again."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The prisoner is...strange.

He prods magic into the mark, into its flickering green light, bright and cold against torchlight-splashed dungeon walls. They recovered remarkably quickly from the shock of the orb’s imprint -- they no longer were sweating or breathing heavy, no longer in distress, which was why they were placed here and not still in the hut as before -- but there was an...emptiness, now, in their breast, and their pulse had grown slow and sluggish over time.

It is a stark contrast to how it had raced and thumped that first day in, how the prisoner had made small mewling cries, almost like a newborn babe. Their eyes had flickered back and forth behind their lids, even fluttering slightly open. But now --

Solas presses more healing into the fragile, fade-bleeding skin of their palm; tries to soothe the angry black and green crawling through their veins in their wrist, but nothing helps. When he brushes his glowing fingertips to their temple, they do not stir. The magic repels itself away from their mind, leaving an echo like that of in a long abandoned cavern, bouncing endlessly until it fades.

Disappointment and frustration war with themselves as he sits back on his haunches. His head bows slightly. His hand lifts to his forehead to rub away the throb. 

_Dead, then_ , he thinks. The anchor, the key, lost in a body still breathing but unmoving. Another, more literal mark of his long line of mistakes; another life snuffed out because of them. A  _mortal_  could never walk the fade and live, and this is proof. He had hoped...

But no. Solas grips the strap of his bag and slings it over his shoulder, standing in one fluid motion. He permits himself one last glance at the peaceful, blank expression of the unaware prisoner before he leaves the room. The two templars stationed outside the door cast him suspicious glances. He ignores them, however, and speaks to the Seeker waiting just beyond.

When he tells her of the prisoner’s health and chances, her jaw tenses. Anger flashes in her eyes, covering anything else she might have felt, even as she orders him and the Child of the Stone to the forward camp with a group of soldiers. He agrees with a dip of his head and turns to retrieve the staff he’d given up to remain in Haven.

Solas sends a searching stare up into the fade-torn sky while the well-worn wood is placed in his hands once more. Crashing thunder and boulders spit forth from the Breach, reflecting a frothing, wounded rage that claws at the edges of the Veil. Any help he might have asked for has already fled far away from the chaos for their own safety. He has no other options, and the thought is too reminiscent of other circumstances ages before. 

But the decision is made: he will make one last attempt, and if he should fail, then he will retreat, as far away as he could. He cannot plan if he does not survive, and with this certainty, he falls into step beside the soldiers and the dwarf, and easily loses himself to thought.


	2. Chapter 2

Almost immediately, Cassandra finds, the Prisoner is aware; almost frighteningly so, despite their situation – that they woke with a circle of blades aimed to kill, in a place unfamiliar. Their eyes are clear and bright, and their brows and mouth twists in desperation as they defend themselves. “All those people,” they choke out, remorseful and thick. She is not fooled, however – there are no other suspects, and the mark on their hand is the proof she believes in. Words do not solve the devastation that this day has been filled with, and the prisoner is not truly afraid as her voice may say.

Divine Justinia is dead. That truth writhes with fury in her breast. Murdered. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, were gone in an instant. And this person, sparking with spreading magic the color and power of the Breach, denies their crime – denies any memory of it!

It is good that Leliana holds her back. They need them.

She drags the prisoner forward to bind their hands with thick rope, and the prisoner watches her intently as they are lead though the dungeon and outside into the cold air and bright, unsettling green sky.

Those eyes – too sharp, somehow expectant – widen at the sight of the Breach, just before it heaves out another round of destruction, ripping at the mark and bringing the prisoner to their knees. Their pained cry is loud and undeniable, trailing into rough breaths and curling their body around the madly flickering magic. Watching the prisoner, Cassandra can admit that she does feel a small swell of pity, and this is what softens her tone but not her resolution.

She tells them that it is spreading. It is killing them. That it may be the only way to stop the giant hole in the sky. She expects fear. She expects their shoulders to tense. Their gaze to grow introspective as they process the thought. Even for a moment. It would be normal.

None of this happens. 

“I understand,” they say. Their gaze burns, grim and proud and something else, when they met her own.

Respect reluctantly curls on her tongue, on the tails of unease. “You mean…?”

“I’ll do what I can.”

Cassandra leads them through Haven and its desperately furious people, who spit at them and curse and huddle together in terror, their attention held in the grasp of the raw force of magic that eats away at the sky. Many of them have fought or run from the demons it has birthed. The prisoner walks straight and hunched, avoiding the clawing hands but not the glares or the hatred-filled spittle at their feet.

“We lash out like the sky,” she says as the gate opens for them. “But we must learn to look beyond ourselves – as she did.” The large doors shudder close behind them, and she turns on her heel to face the other. At her own words bring back Justinia, who listened and did not judge. The Divine – she would not have wanted this for the prisoner, no matter their crimes; for what if they were innocent, and their life was ended in an execution unwarranted? “There will be a trial. I can promise no more.”

The snow is thick under their feet, even on the path trampled by soldiers and those fleeing. The cold is even thicker, frosting their breath and throat, but the prisoner does not complain, does not speak. They take the lead, a consistently light jog with little exertion. They do not pause except when the Breach flares out to force them to, crumpling them to the ground as if struck by a physical blow to the head.

The pure, genuine agony on their face…Cassandra’s heart lurches, even as she soothes with truth. It is a meager thing in the face of this all – a swipe of a small rag across a fast-bleeding wound. Whether it helps or not, it prompts the prisoner to speak at last, and as Cassandra tells them the rumor of the woman behind them, glowing bright from the other side, they slow to a walk. 

They slow even further as they cross the bridge and then –

It is destroyed, and they both fall, and suddenly there are demons and she is shouting and when she turns, she tastes fire and ozone on her tongue –

“Drop your weapon!” A staff. A mage. Her lips curl and snarl, expecting resistance as always when it comes to apostates and criminals. But again, the prisoner, the apostate, surprises her.

“All right. Have it your way.” The voice is layered in with forced calm and patience. The staff lowers. The glow of their gaze can only be described as fierce.

“Wait,” says Cassandra. “Keep it. I cannot protect you.” The truth rankles and she tries to shake off the itching at her shoulders as she turns back to the path up to the forward camp. She glances behind her, only to find that the prisoner’s expression is…strange. Their eyes have hazed over, their head tilted toward the Breach, as if listening to something she, herself, cannot hear. However, they must sense her stare as they turn their head to look at her. “I should remember that you agreed to come willingly.”

Their eyes are clear once more. Perhaps they were simply distracted.

But perhaps not. Cassandra cannot pretend to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are welcome. Thank you for those who have done so, and who have left kudos! It's greatly appreciated, and makes me curl into a little ball of happy with every word.
> 
> I'll be adding chapter titles and summaries when I figure out how I want to pattern them.
> 
> Edit: Spelling errors.

**Author's Note:**

> The first of many.
> 
> Comments are welcome. It's been years since I've posted a multi-chapter'd anything, and certainly never on Ao3.


End file.
